


Trouble

by RainySpringMorning



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassin's Creed Forsaken References, Assassin's Creed III, Connor doesn't like to be called Connor, Connor is aged 16-18 here, Connor's always getting into fights, Gen, Haytham's A+ Parenting, I've never been suspended or expelled so this won't be correct procedures, One Shot, Protective Connor, game references, school fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham meets his son for the first time after he got into a fight at school. Alternate Universe - Modern Setting.</p><p>Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed (III) and all associated characters belong to Ubisoft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea of Haytham being some professional CEO of a company who had a one-time thing with Ziio, had a son he's never met, and is now meeting said son for the first time. Connor would have grown up on a reserve before attending school - in this case, an academy, where this takes place. It was just a fun little thing to stretch the writing component of my brain. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Update 2016-02-09: Title change!

Smoothing his tie and catching his severe reflection in the windowpane of the office door, Haytham Kenway cleared his throat and turned the door handle, sparing no more wasted moments erring as to whether he should or should not confront the hooded figure presently slouched deep in the cushioned chair within the headmaster’s office. Said headmaster, a J.M. Morgan, by white print letters on the triangular block pushed to the front of his large wooden desk, was your typical middle-aged man with a sallow complexion, weak jawline and receding hairline, as well as the usual atrocious sense of style.

With a very brief glance at his polished leather loafers and navy blue pinstripe trousers, simple but presentable for such a manner of meeting, Haytham said a soft greeting as he passed behind the chair the insufferable lump wallowed in and rounded around the far side of the second chair. It was deep set, with a too-spongey cushion that sank under his weight, and the sides were awfully high; either he was to lean back, as the boy next to him was doing, legs splayed open and hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his ivory hoodie, head engulfed by the raised hood, or he was to cross a leg and sit in discomfort. Judging the scenario, which he was still uncertain as to whether or not he should have attended but had been pressed to upon receiving notice – from his damned secretary of all people! – that his _son_ had been involved in a fight at the private academy he attended, Haytham decided on choosing the latter and rested one ankle on his knee, the shoe pointed up facing the window and not to the boy accompanying his left side.

“Thank you for coming as quickly as you did, Mr. Kenway,” Morgan began, folding his hands together on the surface of his desk, shoulders coming forward but drooping under the ease of tension. The lines in his forehead were incredibly stark, Haytham noted. He also noted the fact that he had stopped on the drive to the academy to buy a cappuccino and drove past the boulevard four times before managing to summon the courage to pull in and seek out a parking spot. Needless to say, the cappuccino had been a definitely excellent choice, as he had started the morning in a particularly foul mood after yesterday’s events, concluding with his better secretary leaving for retirement, leaving him to train young Daisy Watson into proper form.

“It’s my pleasure,” Haytham answered, ignoring the roll of shoulders beside him.

“As I said on the phone,” Morgan said, one fingertip outlining a paper written with quick, messy scrawl, obviously detailing the circumstances that had led to this meeting. He paused. “Now, I understand that the two of you haven’t met before?”

“As far as I was aware,” Haytham paused, glancing with only his eyes at the boy beside him before continuing carefully. “He was raised on a reserve by his mother. I have not had the… _pleasure_ of meeting him in person, until today.” The hooded head shifted a fraction towards him and Haytham caught the glimpse of a strong cheekbone and maple complexion, though not much more. He returned his attention to the headmaster and swallowed.

“Err… alright then.” Morgan resumed tracing the written document with his finger. “Now, as I said over the phone, your boy here was involved in a fist fight with another student on the academy grounds. Jason, that is his name, was taken to the hospital and we received word of…” the paper flipped to a new sheet and he read aloud, “‘two broken ribs, a broken nose, and a dislocated shoulder’.”

“Ah, it could have been worse,” Haytham joked, but resumed his careful manner at the alarmed expression offered from across the desk. “Do continue there, Mr. Morgan.”

“The academy does not permit bullying, Mr. Kenway. Your son is of a very violent sort. Now, I’m sure growing up on the Indian reserve differed from the rest of society…” Haytham more or less felt the rolling waves of anger next to him, “… but here it is absolutely prohibited. This is not the only incident Connor has been involved in-”

“That is not my name.” The voice was low, spoken softly, rich with its accent. It reminded Haytham of Ziio’s voice – controlled in its strength but impactful, firmly grasping the attention of its listener. Morgan and Haytham both looked in the boy’s direction at his words.

“Did you say something there, Connor?” Morgan asked. “Have something to say about your actions today?”

The hooded head lifted, along with its body, and two large hands garbed in fingerless gloves slammed down on the desk; the force of it sent papers scattering and items rattling. He leaned forward towards the headmaster, who shrank back with a wordless exclamation, and snarled, “My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton!”

There was dead silence. Haytham watched in mute fascination as the boy straightened to his full, enormous height, and turned around; a jolt of recognition zapped Haytham, sudden and bold, like the intrusion of a loud voice in silence. Connor – Ratonhnhaké:ton – bore the face of his mother and father combined; in nose and mouth he was a Kenway, strong and proud, but his eyes were hers. All hers.

“Jason said words he should not have,” Ratonhnhaké:ton spoke in answer to the headmaster, but his eyes were on Haytham. “He spoke wrongly of my mother. I defended her honour, as any son would have.”

“Yes, any son would rightfully defend their mother,” Haytham agreed quietly, rising to his feet and standing before his child. He noted that the boy loomed over him. “But you must understand that it is _very_ wrong to hurt people. You can’t go along breaking noses and boxing ears simply because you’re angry, now, can you?”

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mouth twisted slightly and he rolled one shoulder. A gesture of reluctant agreement, Haytham guessed. “Why don’t you apologize to Mr. Morgan here and see what punishment he had in mind for you, hmm?”

“Fine,” Ratonhnhaké:ton muttered, wheeling on his heel and sinking back down into the chair, and Haytham followed suite. The headmaster had resumed a calm exterior, but a faint sheen of perspire could be seen on his forehead. He was clearly terrified of the boy, from the way he kept his eyes averted, and the way he took his time to clear his throat several times before speaking.

“Con- I mean Ratonhnhaké:ton,” he said, partly slaughtering the same but forcing it out all the same. “As headmaster, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of all students here at this academy. You violated the rules and sent a fellow pupil to the hospital with severe injuries.” He paused briefly, wiping his upper lip. “You are expelled.”

“Expelled?” Haytham exclaimed.

“Indeed,” Morgan said with a note of finality. “Expelled. I recommend that you go pack your belongings and leave the premises with your father, immediately.”

“What of my classes?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. “I cannot just-”

“You can, and you will,” Morgan said firmly. “If you won’t leave affably, then I will have a police escort you from here to the station.”

Haytham smoothly rose to his feet and adjusted his jacket. He gestured to Ratonhnhaké:ton to stand as well. “There will be no need for a police escort or anything of the type. He will remain under my care and learn how to control his… temper. Come along, son,” he said, leading the way to the door. Ratonhnhaké:ton left and Haytham began to follow, but he had a second thought and turned, hand resting on the handle. “Mr. Morgan?”

“Yes… Mr. Kenway?”

“They are called Natives, not Indians. Perhaps taking more care to respect the individuality of your students would better their performance and result in less… situations, such as these.” He smiled, tipping an imaginary hat to the baffled headmaster. “Good day.”

 


End file.
